


Hold

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Minor details [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: They belong to a killer, they belong to a saviour.





	Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Have some all over the place rambling before I perish under the weight of this headache.

Pale, slender, quick, and sure.  They're the fingers of an artist, not unlike his own, and yet the only similarity shared is the mechanical joints and wired plastic underneath artificial skin.  There is a terrible strength in them alone, he's seen it in Connor's own memory.  Those deceptively delicate fingers closing around another android's wrist and twisting  _just so_ to disrupt vital connections and render the offending hand useless, or exerting enough force to fracture the skin and crack the plastic underneath, tighter and tighter until sparks fly and the android wails their submission or fights back in a futile effort to be  _free_.  He can easily pluck the door from a car or hold up an elevator if presented the opportunity to get a grip on it.  Weapons are child's play for him to assemble and tear apart, disarming hostiles before they can even blink.

It's a strength echoed in his hands and arms, the broad stretch of his shoulders.  Steady and  _sure_ in their brace on a rooftop, holding still for the Alice child to use his body as a ladder back to safety, in their grip on an android as imposing as Luther, hefting his weight onto Connor's back and keeping him there as they run.

They're the weapons of a killer, following the path forecast by one of the best processors CyberLife has to offer.  They've found the delicate innards of androids and pulled it all loose, they've been bathed in so much Thirium there's still traces of it under his nails.  They've had their fair share of human blood since his fall into deviancy, turning his wrath on the species that created him in order to safeguard his own.  They're the hands of a troubled man, always in motion, always fidgeting, be it with his favourite coin or the hat formerly on his head and yanked over his eyes by Markus himself.  Never still, not for long, fussing over his clothing or at each of the fingers he scrubs clean after every death with such ferocity Markus wonders how the RK800 model hasn't ripped off his own digits yet.  They shake when he's cold and tremble minutely in Markus's grasp if they're confronted with a fight or flight situation.

He was a machine once, every movement precise, necessary, accounted for.  The perfect weapon.  The deadliest hunter, the victor in his game of cat and mouse with every deviant named on the case files on his desk.  But Markus knows the heart of the man underneath, the  _soul_ held in an artificial body, the mind behind the orders, the conflicted screams begging for mercy, for help,  _please set me free._   He knows where the RK800 ends and Connor begins, he knows the hands meant to maim and kill and cause untold pain can do so much more.

Palm up, fingers outstretched, aid for the fallen to regain their feet.  Palm flat, fingers together and his full weight behind it, a bracing contact when Markus staggers from a bullet wound.  Grip tight, fingers painful, sparks of pressure and error codes streaming to life behind closed eyelids, the gasp of his name when the connection is made and their sensors align, safety protocols ignored and an incoming flood in the feedback loop, him,  _him_ , only him, always him.

Connor is inexperienced in the art of tender care, clumsy in the walk of his fingers over his wounds, but Markus doesn't mind the complaints from his receptors.  Not when he can see the furrowed brow and the chest still from arrested breath, the grim line of a compressed mouth and the glimmer of brown eyes that aren't the cold pair he first encountered in the freighter.

He is no match for an RK800, too weak and too slow, but Connor is stemming the Thirium flow, and Markus has never felt safer.


End file.
